


Hunger Of The Pine

by infinite_mirrors



Series: 'Til Morning Comes [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Prostitution, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Anal Sex, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Combeferre is a Tortured Soul (TM), Enjolras is Enjolras, F/M, Jehan is an ethereal genderfluid mystic, Les Amis de l'ABC Shenanigans, M/M, Mind Control, Mind/Mood Altering Substances, Porn with Feelings, Vigilantism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-21
Updated: 2020-11-20
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:08:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27653194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/infinite_mirrors/pseuds/infinite_mirrors
Summary: “But seriously, Enj,” Courfeyrac says when he’s settled down. “How are we going to pull off graffiti-ing the Eiffel Tower?”“We’re not going tograffiti the Eiffel Tower,that’s ridiculous,” Enjolras says. “We’re going to graffiti the Louvre.”“Oh my god,” Combeferre says.
Relationships: Combeferre/Courfeyrac (Les Misérables), Cosette Fauchelevent/Marius Pontmercy, Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables), Minor or Background Relationship(s), Montparnasse/Jean Prouvaire
Series: 'Til Morning Comes [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1998319
Comments: 8
Kudos: 13





	Hunger Of The Pine

**Author's Note:**

> Part two of 'Til Morning Comes, babyyyy! This picks back up right where the first fic ended, so read that first if you haven't already. :) P.S. I only got the chance to proofread this once so apologies if there are any mistakes.

Weeks pass like leaves falling from trees; imperceptibly at first, drying up one by one and drifting down with a stray breeze, until one day you walk outside and all the trees are bare, and you realize winter has set down its frigid roots, and you barely even noticed the transition.

Courfeyrac and Eponine’s presence doesn’t feel like winter. Or, Courfeyrac’s doesn’t—Eponine left the Musain shortly after receiving her new documentation from Jehan, saying she appreciated it and everything, but she couldn’t tie herself down to these people or their beliefs so quickly. She needed time, and space, and the knowledge that she didn’t owe anybody anything. Combeferre understood that. Courfeyrac, it seemed, had expected it, but he looked sad to see her go all the same.

“It’s not like you won’t see me around,” she said while wrapped in Courfeyrac’s tight embrace. “I know where you live. Dummy.”

True to her word, Eponine has come to the Musain practically every night since then, chatting with Courfeyrac over coffee or having a drink with Musichetta, Bossuet, and Grantaire in the later hours. But she never goes upstairs, unless it’s to go to Courfeyrac’s apartment.

For his part, Courfeyrac has eased into life at the Musain and ABC like he belongs there. Within a few short weeks, he’s become such an integral member of their group, none of them could imagine him ever not being there. Meetings feel livelier. Enjolras smiles more. Jokes and banter flow more freely than wine.

It’s nothing at all like a barren, unsympathetic winter. Combeferre has never felt the warmth of the sun, but he thinks it can’t be much different than the warmth of Courfeyrac’s smile.

* * *

The little blue pill weighs practically nothing, but it sits heavy in Combeferre’s pocket. He clutches it tightly in his palm as he strides purposefully down the busy street, his coat billowing behind him in the whistling wind.

Joly is waiting for him at his apartment, still in his scrubs from being on-call at the hospital during the day. He lets Combeferre inside and holds his hand out with a grim sort of expectation. Combeferre takes the pill out of his pocket and gives it to him.

“Are you sure about this, Combeferre?”

He thinks about Courfeyrac and Eponine that first night they arrived, over a month ago. The sickening feeling in his stomach when they revealed their ravaged necks. How is taking a blood capsule any different? He might not be directly hurting anyone, but he’s still consuming a stranger’s blood. Blood human citizens are required, by law, to give. If the donations were voluntary, things might be different, but...

“I’m sure.”

Joly holds the pill up to the light, turning it this way and that. It looks entirely ordinary, like something a person might take for a headache.

“It’s just the first formula,” he continues. “I’m sure it’ll take a few tries to get it right.”

After that fateful morning, he didn’t touch his blood capsules for eight days, until Enjolras realized what he was doing and lectured him about the dangers of starving himself. As if he didn’t know. He’s a _biochemist_ , for Christ’s sake, of course he knows.

But he also knows he can’t continue to have the weight of this guilt on his shoulders. There has to be another way.

He’s continued to take his capsules since then, but he cut his dose in half, and found that he still felt perfectly fine. It makes him wonder how little he could take and still remain functional. But he’s been taking them all the same, and at work, he’s been staying until the last person left at the end of the night, pretending to be finishing up with one thing or another; then, alone with a fully functional laboratory, he would pull up the encrypted files on his laptop and get to work.

Joly hands him back the pill—the result of a month's worth of painstaking effort.

“You know I believe in what you’re doing,” Joly hedges. “But I have no idea what this could do to your body. You’re essentially experimenting on yourself.”

“That’s why I need you to be my monitor.” Combeferre gives him an imploring look. “Please, Joly. A working blood substitute? Think of what it could mean for human rights. For progress.”

“You’re starting to sound like Enjolras,” Joly says, still looking uncertain.

“I’ll just do it anyway,” Combeferre says, not as a threat, but because it’s true. “With or without your help.”

Joly sighs and rubs his temples, looking utterly exhausted from his shift, from this conversation, from life in general.

“Yeah, I know you will.” He gives Combeferre a long, searching look. “Alright. But if I tell you it’s getting dangerous, you stop and immediately go back to blood capsules. Full dosage.”

“Of course.”

Satisfied, Joly leads him to the kitchen table, where his stethoscope, a thermometer, and a blood pressure cuff lie on the polished surface. He sits Combeferre down and takes his vitals, writing the figures down on a clipboard, his lips pursed in resignation. Lastly, he takes a blood sample. When he’s done, he gets a glass of water from the sink and sets it before Combeferre.

“Take the pill now, then come see me tomorrow, same time. Keep a log of any changes you feel—physical, emotional, whatever. Anything that’s not normal for you.”

Combeferre looks at the pill, small and innocuous in his hand, his heart thudding in his chest. Not allowing himself to hesitate, he puts the pill in his mouth and takes a big gulp of water to swallow it down.

Joly only has five hours until his next shift, so he ushers Combeferre out the door, looking apologetic but ready to be done with the entire business so he can get some sleep.

“While you’re doing these… trials,” he says delicately, his hand on the door frame. “You won’t be taking any blood capsules, will you?”

He phrases it like it was a statement, already knowing the answer and very much disapproving of it. Combeferre offers him a small smile.

“That’s the point, isn’t it?”

He waves goodbye to Joly and steps out into the night.

* * *

Courfeyrac’s neck is almost entirely healed. There are still a few fading bruises here and there, yellow patches on otherwise tan skin, and the more messy bites have scarred over, leaving little pink marks in places; but other than that, he looks completely healthy, his shoulder pressed against Enjolras’s as they examine The Map spread out on the table.

As usual, Les Amis are gathered in their headquarters at the Musain, drinks in their hands and relaxed smiles on their faces. One of their more informal meetings, then. Courfeyrac is in the middle of saying something to Enjolras, but when Combeferre walks in, he turns and gives him a smile that makes Combeferre think of fresh snow. Maybe the winter analogy wasn’t so far off the mark, after all.

The shadows under Courfeyrac’s eyes are gone. His hair has a healthy shine to it. His eyes are clear and open in a way they weren’t at the brothel, not by a long shot. God, Combeferre wants him, more than he’s ever wanted anyone before. His skin looks so soft and pliant. Combeferre can’t help wondering what it would taste like.

He frowns. Therein lies the problem. After being used and handled by vampires for so long, would Courfeyrac really want another one in his life? Of course, it’s a different situation with Combeferre. He doesn’t just want to satisfy some dark, shameful desire with a beautiful stranger; he actually _likes_ Courfeyrac, as a person, as a friend. He respects him. And he would never dream of violating him in the way scores of his less savory clients did.

Still, he has to ask himself if that distinction even matters. Combeferre looks at his almost-healed neck again. He wouldn’t blame Courfeyrac if he never wants to even be in the same _room_ as another vampire for the rest of his life.

“National Assembly elections are coming up,” Enjolras says by way of greeting, an excited glimmer in his eyes. He clasps Combeferre’s hand and pulls him into the center of the gathering with another hand on his shoulder. “What do you think of doing a smear campaign?”

“Against which party?”

Feuilly snorts. “Uh, all of them?”

“Do you know the number of left party candidates this election?” Musichetta says grimly. “Seven.”

“The rest have dropped off the ballot,” Bossuet adds. “Presumably after being threatened, bought off, or both.”

“The few leftist candidates in the running aren’t even pro-human rights,” Jehan says with a sigh. “They’re only technically in the left because of their economic policies.”

“In other words,” Grantaire pipes up cheerfully. “We’re utterly fucked.”

Combeferre makes a noncommittal noise and looks down at The Map. He already knew all of this, and has been wondering when Enjolras would decide to make a move. And what, exactly, that move would be.

“All monuments,” he observes, nodding at the points on the map marked with little game pieces—an eclectic mix of Monopoly, Clue, Chess, and a few he doesn’t recognize. “What are you planning?”

“Nothing too serious,” Enjolras says, shrugging nonchalantly. “We’ll start with posters everywhere. And Grantaire can help us set up some… thought-provoking art installments at our great city’s monuments.”

“I got the magic touch,” Grantaire says flatly, and Enjolras grins at him, either not detecting the sarcastic tone or choosing to ignore it.

“Damn right you do,” he says proudly, and Grantaire’s ears turn an interesting shade of pink. “And if this all goes well, we could end it with a protest at the Palais Bourbon on election day.”

He hands Combeferre half a dozen flyers, all of which have either bold-type messages or political cartoons in Grantaire’s signature style. One depicts a vampire biting the neck of Marianne, the symbol of the Republic, her bonnet flying off her head as she screams in terror. Another shows the prime minister defecating on the constitution. Combeferre tries and fails to suppress his amused smile.

“Just exposing the State for what it really is,” Courfeyrac says. “A fucking joke.”

“Yeah, a real shitty one,” Bossuet quips, and is met with snorts and fond groans.

“You know I’m all for a good smear campaign,” Combeferre says, handing the flyers back to Enjolras. “But isn’t mud-slinging a little… juvenile? What will it accomplish?”

“It makes them seem less powerful,” Enjolras says confidently. “Like Courfeyrac said, a joke. It empowers the people. Plus, it’s funny.”

Courfeyrac high-fives Grantaire, and Combeferre smiles again.

“Fair enough,” he allows. “And these, er, ‘art installments?’”

“Oh, just. Statues, murals, that sort of thing,” Grantaire says.

Combeferre raises an eyebrow.

“Enjolras, defacing the Arc de Triomphe?” he says in mock astonishment. “Where is your patriotism?”

Scattered laughter ripples through the room, and Enjolras’s mouth twists in disdain.

“An imperialistic eyesore for a tyrant with an over-inflated ego,” he sniffs.

“Yeah, _fuck_ Napoleon,” Bahorel adds, dramatically slamming his fist on the table. Courfeyrac and Jehan’s giggling spiral out of control.

“But seriously, Enj,” Courfeyrac says when he’s settled down. “How are we going to pull off graffiti-ing the Eiffel Tower?”

“We’re not going to _graffiti the Eiffel Tower_ , that’s ridiculous,” Enjolras says. “We’re going to graffiti the Louvre.”

“Oh my god,” Combeferre says.

“You know what I mean. How will we pull off vandalizing the country’s most prized historic monuments without getting caught?”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we get there,” Enjolras says flippantly, like he’s discussing what groceries to buy.

Combeferre can tell he already has a plan; in all likelihood, he’s already set it in motion. Enjolras is in possession of many strings, and he’s not afraid to pull them.

“For now, let’s focus on getting these flyers out there,” Enjolras continues. “Meet back here tomorrow, two hours before dawn. We’ll partner up and divide the districts among ourselves.”

With that, the meeting is adjourned. The Map is cleared away, scarves and half-empty drinks are grabbed, and bodies begin shuffling toward the stairs. Most will linger downstairs and have another drink or a cup of coffee, or just to mingle. Les Amis are more than a group of humanitarians, after all—they are, first and foremost, friends.

Courfeyrac nudges his arm and gives him a charming, lopsided grin.

“Wanna be partners?” he asks.

 _In more ways than one_ , is his immediate response, but he bites it back in favor of a less embarrassing one.

“Of course.”

Courfeyrac beams like it’s the best thing he heard all day, and Combeferre grows flustered despite himself.

“Great! I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

“Oh,” Combeferre stumbles. “You’re not heading downstairs with everyone?”

“Actually, Jehan and I are going to hang out for a bit,” Courfeyrac says, squeezing Combeferre’s arm in parting.

Combeferre notices, for the first time, that Jehan hasn’t headed toward the stairwell along with everyone else. They stand off to the side, scrolling through something on their phone, but they look up when Courfeyrac mentions them.

“We’re going to do tarot readings,” they say serenely.

“Oh,” Combeferre says again, trying not to sound disappointed. “Okay, well. Have fun?”

“Tarot is very serious business, Combeferre,” Courfeyrac chastises him with a wink.

The two leave for Courfeyrac’s apartment, and Combeferre goes downstairs to join the others. He wonders when Courfeyrac and Jehan started hanging out outside of ABC, selfishly hoping it’s platonic and instantly feeling guilty for it. Courfeyrac is free to see anyone he wants, at any capacity he chooses. That doesn’t stop him from feeling absurdly jealous.

He thinks about the way Courfeyrac said his name, and how much he rather liked it. Then he forces himself to shut away unwanted thoughts and emotions and goes to have a round of drinks with his friends.

* * *

They’re somewhere in the Saint-Lambert quarter, in the fifteenth arrondissement, taping flyers to every pole and exposed wall they can find. Combeferre is trying not to read too much into Courfeyrac asking him to be his partner for the project, telling himself it’s because he knows him better than the others. They’ve become good friends over the past month, having bonded over their experience at the brothel. Saving each other’s lives has a way of establishing trust in most relationships.

Then again, just about everyone took to Courfeyrac pretty quickly. And why wouldn’t they? He’s kind and funny, always saying the right thing at the right time in a way that still seems genuine. He became fast friends with Les Amis, with the staff at the Musain, and with the café’s regular customers, so effortlessly it’s like he was made for socialization. Combeferre is probably fooling himself in thinking their bond is special.

“How are things at the café?” he asks Courfeyrac.

They wait for a lone car to pass before plastering a flyer to the wall. It’s close enough to daybreak that the streets are fairly clear, but not completely deserted. Courfeyrac asked, during the meeting earlier that night, why they don’t just execute the mission in the daytime; ABC has enough human members to cover the same amount of ground, if they really hustle, and no humans on the street would report them.

“For protection,” Feuilly explained. “A vampire partner to every human. There are less cops on patrol in the daytime, but they’re still out there, and you need someone to get you out if one decides to glamor you.”

They made the mistake before. Only about a third of the city’s police force have the day shift, helmets and body armor protecting them from the sun’s rays; but even with their eyes hidden behind tinted glass, vampires still have the ability to glamor a human they make eye contact with. Only the range is impacted, shrinking down to about ten meters.

Bahorel was three meters away when he was glamored. It took a lot of bribing and bargaining to get him out of holding, and when they finally got him back, he was sporting a black eye and a swollen lip. Bahorel, being Bahorel, only grinned and said he was glad it had been him—he’d been itching for a fight, anyway.

So here they are, ducking through alleys and behind corners whenever a car or pedestrian passes—or worse, an officer on patrol. Courfeyrac tells Combeferre all about his shift that night at the Musain, all the wacky customer stories and order mix-ups and minor disasters. Combeferre stays close to his side, letting his voice wash over him like a balm. Courfeyrac’s gestures are open and candid, a far cry from when he first arrived at ABC, shut off and distant. It’s like watching a flower bloom.

“What about your night at the lab?” Courfeyrac asks him. “I keep forgetting to ask what it is you even do. Mix colorful chemicals in vials and write things down on clipboards? Have mice run through mazes for cheese?”

“Yep, you pretty much covered it. Just your average scientist, doing very important Science.”

Courfeyrac laughs and shoves him playfully, his breath pluming in the chilled air.

“We’re actually trying to develop a tolerance serum for the sun. For vampires, of course.”

“Like super sunscreen?”

Combeferre smiles fondly. “More like a hormone you could take. It would help with light and heat sensitivity, but we’d still have to put on sunscreen and layered clothing for topical protection.”

Courfeyrac’s expression turns a little strained as he looks down at the flyers in his hands.

“Vampires out at all hours, huh?”

Combeferre frowns. For many humans, daylight is a reprieve; a time to sigh out the night’s tension and relax outside, soak up the vitamin D they need to be healthy. The number of cops on patrol is minor, and most of them are too tired and wary of the sun to do their jobs adequately. The businesses that stay open are run by humans. Daylight is _safe_.

“It’s still in the research stage,” Combeferre says, hoping to sound reassuring. “It’ll be a while before it’s developed, tested, and approved. And then even longer to become commonly used.”

By then, hopefully, things would be different. Combeferre believes in the goodness in people, believes they’re always moving toward a better future. He believes peace and equality are on the horizon.

He has to.

Courfeyrac shoots him a small, appreciative smile, and Combeferre does not tell him about the little blue pill he took.

“So, what did your tarot cards tell you?” he asks, grasping for a topic change.

Courfeyrac looks surprised, then laughs.

“Jehan’s reading? Nothing I don’t already know,” he says mysteriously.

“Yeah?” Combeferre stops to tape up another flyer. “Is that good or bad?”

Courfeyrac hums thoughtfully. "Good, I think. We'll see."

_“Hey, you there!”_

Combeferre freezes. He and Courfeyrac exchange quick, wide-eyed looks before turning around. A bright light flashes in Combeferre’s face, then Courfeyrac’s, where it pauses. Combeferre takes in the badge, the navy uniform, and the stoic, disapproving expression on the vampire’s face, and thinks, _shit_.

“Stop right there,” the officer says, striding down the street toward them.

How did they not see him? Combeferre berates himself for getting caught up in his conversation with Courfeyrac—for getting distracted by him, if he’s being honest. They should have seen the cop coming from blocks away. He’s turning to run when he throws a glance in Courfeyrac’s direction and notices his vacant stare, eyes glazed over in a telling way that has Combeferre cursing the officer in his head. The bastard glamored him.

“Courfeyrac,” he barks, grabbing him by the arm.

No effect. Combeferre physically puts himself between Courfeyrac and the advancing officer, grabbing him by the shoulders and shaking him.

“Courf, come on, snap out of it!”

Courfeyrac blinks a few times and his eyes, mercifully, refocus.

Combeferre grabs his hand and runs.

Flyers go sailing out of their hands, fluttering like a flock of birds behind them as they sprint down the street. Combeferre swivels his head around, taking in street signs to try to get a clear map of where they are in his head. They’re heading southeast on Rue des Favorites, coming up to a traffic circle. Combeferre knows there’s a safe house just a few streets away, if they could only lose the cop and ensure they wouldn’t be followed. The officer looks to be nearly twice their age, but he’s surprisingly fit, keeping pace and not looking like he’s going to fall behind any time soon. The sound of his feet pounding on the pavement behind them matches Combeferre’s pulse thudding in his ears. It lights a fire under his feet and has him pumping his legs to go faster, pulling Courfeyrac behind him.

Once they spill out onto the main street and come upon the traffic circle, there are significantly more cars on the road, people racing to beat the sunrise and get home while the city is still shrouded in shadows.

Combeferre doesn’t pause. He runs, Courfeyrac in tow, directly into traffic.

Horns blare and tires screech, and Courfeyrac shouts his name in alarm, but Combeferre doesn’t stop until he’s raced through the middle of the traffic circle and emerged on the other side. He pauses for breath then, at the mouth of Rue Saint-Amand, and looks over his shoulder. Cars are still honking angrily at them, but the flow of traffic has resumed. He can’t see the officer.

To be safe, they take a long, indirect route to the safe house, keeping a fast pace the entire way. They cut through a narrow, arterial street halfway down Rue Saint-Amand, head west for a few blocks, then double back. By the time they make it to the safe house, a small, inconspicuous building on Rue Thiboumery, they're both sweating and breathing heavily. The sky has lightened to a cold gray, and there’s no chance the officer’s shift hasn’t ended.

Combeferre spares a moment to be grateful it’s an overcast day; the brightness is nearly unbearable, but at least there’s no direct sunlight to irritate his skin. He fishes a key out of his pocket and lets them inside the ivy-covered building. All the windows on the street are barred, and all the doors are gated, which makes their security measures blend right in. Once inside, he quickly punches a code into the box by the door, locking them down, and then they stand in the foyer for a long minute, catching their breath.

“Are you okay?” he asks Courfeyrac through deep, painful breaths.

His heart is still hammering in his chest, adrenaline making him shaky and restless. They lock eyes in the dark hallway, and the rest of Combeferre’s words die in his throat when he takes in Courfeyrac’s appearance.

Beneath his disheveled hair, his cheeks are flushed, his full mouth parted as he gasps in air. His scarf is gone, lost in the chase, exposing the long line of his neck. They stare at each other in silence for several agonizing seconds.

Then Courfeyrac grabs him by the front of his jacket and crushes their lips together.

Combeferre wastes no time in responding to the kiss. He wraps an arm around Courfeyrac’s waist and buries his other hand in his hair. _Finally_ , he thinks. _Finally_. And then he doesn't think anymore.

Courfeyrac’s hands slide up his chest and wrap themselves around his neck. His lips are so soft, so malleable under his own, parting eagerly for his tongue. Combeferre backs him against the wall and thoroughly maps his mouth while sneaking a hand under his shirt, seeking skin. He notes what makes Courfeyrac sigh, and what makes him let out a quiet moan, and what makes him shiver in delight. Every response makes Combeferre want to get lost in him, to burrow deeper until he reaches the expanse of heat and stardust inside him, the beautiful microcosm that lies beneath the surface.

It seems like ages and no time at all when they finally break apart, gasping into the small space between them, bodies still glued together. (And God, do they fit well together, like pieces of a puzzle, slotted perfectly in place to make a complete whole.) Courfeyrac peers up at him under his eyelashes. His lips are shiny and swollen, his eyes large and dark and impossibly vast. They pierce Combeferre in place and send sparks of heat shooting to his groin. Combeferre runs a finger along his lower lip, watching his mouth fall open invitingly. He’s incapable of being glamored, but he feels, in this moment, completely entranced by Courfeyrac’s breath on his skin. A bomb could go off and he wouldn’t notice.

Courfeyrac leans back in for a swift kiss, then another, and another, like he can’t help himself. Combeferre knows the feeling. He kisses along Courfeyrac’s chin and jaw, tracing circles on his hip bone with his thumb. A kiss at his hair line. A kiss just under his ear. A kiss to his neck—

Courfeyrac abruptly shoves him away, palms pressed flatly to his chest.

The sudden chasm is cold and cavernous between them. It takes Combeferre a second to process what had happened, to adjust to the emptiness again. The glimpse he got of the world behind Courfeyrac’s eyes is gone, shut behind a stony expression. It clicks for Combeferre a moment later.

“No, Courf,” he says quickly, holding his hands up in surrender. “I wasn’t going to… I wouldn’t, I would _never_. I’m sorry.”

The pressure against his chest lessens, and Courfeyrac’s hands fall limply to his sides as he looks away. He takes a deep, steadying breath and crosses his arms over his chest.

“I know,” Courfeyrac says quietly.

But the damage is done. Combeferre closes his eyes, mentally kicking himself. He got swept up in the moment and forgot the crucial details, the circumstances under which Courfeyrac entered his life in the first place. Good intentions or not, he betrayed Courfeyrac’s trust.

A soft touch to his arm makes him open his eyes. Courfeyrac looks up at him wistfully, a small, sad smile etched onto his lips. He slowly leans up and kisses Combeferre on the cheek.

“Don’t beat yourself up about it,” he murmurs.

He slips around Combeferre and ventures further into the silent house, leaving Combeferre to stand there and contemplate the morning’s events. He can still feel the ghost of Courfeyrac’s warmth against him, can still taste the sweetness of his mouth. When he finally forces his feet to move and find a bed to rest in, he can feel Courfeyrac’s soft, soft lips lingering on his cheek.

* * *

Courfeyrac wakes up fairly early, for him. Sunset is still at least three hours away, although the day is so overcast they won’t have to wait until then to leave the safe house. It’s dark enough outside that Combeferre will be able to make the trip back without much discomfort.

Combeferre. The prospect of seeing him again makes Courfeyrac’s stomach twist nervously. He feels foolish for pushing him away that morning. Foolish, and more than a little embarrassed. Of _course_ Combeferre would never hurt him in that way. He knows that. He trusts Combeferre, feels _safe_ around him.

At least, he thought he did.

But when Combeferre’s lips brushed against his neck, Courfeyrac’s reaction was immediate. Visceral. All he had been feeling, all the heat and desire and good, _so good_ , fled him in an instant, and he collapsed in on himself like a feeble house of cards.

Was it just a one-time slip because he had been caught off-guard? Or is he more broken than he thought?

God, he hates this. He hates this feeling, this aching vulnerability that makes him want to hide and cry and break things. He wishes he could reach inside himself and carve it out, this poison, this cancerous thing, and scrub the walls of his consciousness clean until he’s blissfully hollow.

He just wants his relationship with Combeferre to be _simple_.

And how will Combeferre see him now, anyway, after that episode? Will he feel too guilty to continue their whatever-it-was, the foreign territory they were on the cusp of stepping into? He’ll blame himself, no doubt, even though he did nothing wrong and it was entirely Courfeyrac’s problem. Courfeyrac’s demons that chose to bare their teeth, no pun intended.

Does Combeferre still even want him?

Courfeyrac swallows thickly, scrubs his hands over his face and resolutely does not follow that line of thinking. When he finally scrapes together enough courage to leave the room, Courfeyrac finds Combeferre sitting at the small table in the kitchen, phone in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other.

When he sees Courfeyrac, he goes still.

_Great._

Courfeyrac does his best to ignore the fantastically awkward atmosphere—and the way Combeferre is staring at him like he’s a wild animal that can be spooked at any moment—and walks casually up to the table, snatching the cup out of Combeferre’s hand and taking a sip. He spares a grimace at the total lack of anything in the coffee, leaning up against the table and schooling his expression into one of neutral interest.

“So, what’s the news?” he says nonchalantly, nodding at the phone in Combeferre’s hand. His other hand is still raised, clutching at the empty space where his coffee was.

Combeferre stares at him a moment longer before dropping his hand to the table.

“Uh, well,” he says, clearing his throat. “The others were pretty successful in getting the flyers everywhere. No one else had a run-in with a cop like we did.”

“Nothing like a good, old fashioned, chase through the streets at dawn to get the blood pumping, right?” Courfeyrac says, and immediately realizes how unfortunate his phrasing was.

To his credit, Combeferre looks only mildly uncomfortable.

“Right… Anyway,” Combeferre says, focusing on his phone. So they aren’t going to talk about it, then. “It’s already all over mainstream media. Want to guess what they’re saying?”

“Hmm.” Courfeyrac taps his chin in faux contemplation. “A random act of vandalism, childish and ineffective, likely the work of a few disorganized, low-brow vigilantes with too much time on their hands… Did I get it all?”

“You forgot ‘only succeeding in wasting tax money to clean up their mess,’” Combeferre says.

“Ahh, so close.”

“Social media, on the other hand, unanimously agrees it was ABC,” Combeferre continues, pulling up a page on his phone. “’The State’s so desperate to cover up civil unrest they’re calling thousands of flyers paving the streets like the fucking Yellow Brick Road a “random act of vigilantism.” ABC doing God’s work in Paris.’ Hashtag-the-people-will-rise, hashtag-I’m-with-friends, hashtag-know-your-ABC’s. Prayer hands emoji, laughing emoji, one hundred emoji, check emoji, Eiffel Tower emoji.”

Courfeyrac laughs. “Did Bahorel write that?”

“No, but he’s the one who sent it to me.”

“Well, at least Twitter knows what’s up.”

For a moment it seems like all is normal between them, both easily sliding back into their usual banter, but then Combeferre utters a weak chuckle and sets down his phone in favor of pushing his glasses up to rub his eyes.

Courfeyrac studies him more carefully for the first time that evening. He’s slouched forward in his seat, elbows braced against the table; his hair isn’t perfectly gelled back like usual, little strands curling at his hairline, and the top two buttons of his shirt are left unbuttoned under his sweater. Small details, but Combeferre always looks so put together that the effect is jarring.

He probably just stayed up late checking in with the others, or running crucial errands, or something. Still, a small prickle of worry worms its way into Courfeyrac’s chest.

“You okay, ‘Ferre?” he asks, placing a cautious hand on his shoulder.

Combeferre flinches so hard at the contact he spills a little coffee on the table. Startled, Courfeyrac hastily withdraws his hand and utters a quick apology, guilt welling in his stomach. Of course Combeferre wouldn't want his touch after his fucking _meltdown_ that morning. What on earth could make him think otherwise?

“No, no, it’s fine,” Combeferre says quickly, grabbing Courfeyrac’s hand and giving it a reassuring squeeze. “I’m just tired, and… distracted.”

Courfeyrac’s heart rate picks up at that. Maybe they’re going to talk about what happened, after all. Maybe this is salvageable, maybe Courfeyrac can fix this, maybe—

“Distracted by what?”

Combeferre looks away. “Just a project Joly and I are working on.”

Courfeyrac’s heart sinks. Maybe not.

“It’s nothing you need to worry about.”

Combeferre takes a long sip of his coffee, and Courfeyrac, observing the pinch between his eyebrows, his guarded eyes, and the barely-there tremor in his hand, knows he’s lying. Whether or not their kiss the other night has anything to do with it, Courfeyrac doesn’t know, but apparently Combeferre doesn’t trust him with the truth.

“Okay.”

**Author's Note:**

> • Time for a super condensed lesson in French politics!!  
> • France has a weird political system where they have both a parliament and a president/executive branch (called the "government"). The legislative branch is made up of the National Assembly and the Senate, and they vote on bills proposed by the government, although the National Assembly gets the last word if there's a disagreement. Elections for the National Assembly are held every five years, not too long after presidential elections, if I'm not mistaken. The National Assembly consists of over 500 deputies, so only seven left-wing candidates is obviously ridiculous.  
> • Like in the States, left is synonymous with liberal, and right is conservative. Unlike the US, France has way more political parties, and different ones are prominent in each election. But the tendency to default to a two-party majority remains the same. The president can dissolve the National Assembly and call for new elections if there's too much disagreement between the branches, but the National Assembly can force the executive branch to dissolve, too, so the government tends to have the same political leanings as the National Assembly majority. It's a 'get shit done or get out' kind of system.  
> • Palais Bourbon is the seat of the National Assembly.  
> • Finally, all those lessons in French class paid off.  
> • Hi I'm Monika and I abuse Google Maps!!


End file.
